The Name Game

Writing a story is a challenge in itself; attempting to tell a compelling tale with a plot that hooks the reader and to make them care for your characters is no small task, and yet what I find  to be the most difficult obstacle to overcome is names.

Names need to sound natural, need to feel comfortable. Like bad dialogue, if a name doesn't sound right for your character, then the reader will not invest time in reading their story. There are so many elements that a great story can unravel over, but I have a solution for names that will at least get this part down.

They're like free creative stimulants.

It is that time of year when everyone is graduating from college, and there are fewer more suitable repositories for names than a commencement program. I recently graduated from Monmouth University with 1,032 other graduates, all of them with varying names from different cultures and backgrounds (a perk of living in New Jersey). I highly suggest keeping one of these when going to a friend's or family member's graduation because if you're ever stuck on names, this is the encyclopedic source to search.

I've been several times: a name like "Rachel" stubbornly sticks in my mind, but I don't feel like the name suits my character; it's a type of writer's block that is at times more frustrating because you're certain you can continue writing the story if only the name were right. This same issue plagued recently, and so I turned through the pages of my commencement program till I found the right first and last name combination I felt comfortable. I came across the last name "Flook" and was immediately drawn: it's unique, easy to rhyme, and completely fit my character in ways I planned to write her. While I'm still not crazy over the first name "Lauren," I'm glad to have found such a suitable last name, one I never would have come across without this handy program.

Inspiration strikes in the most unlikely places, so go forth and find your own tools to help make writing a little easier.
 

Nearing the End of Graduate School

Grad school is coming to a close and I chose to write something as difficult as difficult things can be: an epistolary, historical fiction novella. In it, I catalog the First World War from the perspective of four different soldiers from four different nations (England, France, Germany, Austria-Hungary). I am in the revision process, and it's looking pretty good. This is as well as I can write for now. I am hoping all future endeavors will continue to be improvements.

Here's an excerpt:

3 December 1914

Dear You Unlucky Bastard,

            NCO says writing is the best way to clear your head. Says it’s important to let your family know how you’re doing. Good idea, except the part about having a family. Any advice for special cases like me? He says to keep a journal. And here we are.

            I haven’t got a clue what to write, and I’m only doing it because there’s nothing else for me to do. Might as well begin by writing that it’s cold. The army gave me nothing to keep warm, except this dingy blanket that couldn’t keep a sheep dog from shivering. The wind blows around too much out here. Getting in my bones.

            I’m somewhere out in eastern France waiting for combat orders in a billet. Several other recruits are doing the same as me. But they’ve got families to write to.

            I guess I could write about myself and how I got here.

            I was born in Paris. Grew up there too. Parents died when I was 5. Both of them got tuberculosis the same time and died the same time. I vaguely remember them holding hands as they died, leaving me alone. Ended up in an orphanage where they taught me numbers, words, and the bible. At first it wasn’t so bad. They treated me well, till I was about 8. Then they expected me to do kitchen work, like scrub pots and clean floors. Things women do. I refused most times.I can still feel the sharp pain from when the sisters hit my knuckles with the rolling rod. I didn’t give them many more chances to do it again. I packed what little I had and left that place on my tenth birthday. It was a present to myself. The first one since my parents died.

            After wandering the city for about a month, sleeping in parks and any place I could find to stay warm, I found the perfect spot. On Scipion Street there lived the old couple Édouard and Claire Dussollier. Their apartment building was nothing fancy, but it was warm and easy to get into the basement. There was a clutter of old junk and dust that hadn’t been touched in years, and they rarely came down. Maybe three or four times while I lived below them. My favorite thing down there was Édouard's old tuba case. I made it into a bed till I outgrew it. Sometimes I pretended it was a castle, and I a king. I called the Dussollier's apartment my home for six years.

            In that time I learned more about those two than I ever knew about anyone. Even my own parents. In a way, Édouard and Claire were like my parents. We never met, but I learned everything I know from them. I read letters from their children, Martin and Gilles, to teach myself to write. I learned patience and pleasure from sneaking Claire’s homemade confiture de fraises. I learned to make memories of a normal life by listening to their conversations above me. Theirs were voices coming down from Heaven. 

So that's just a bit of what I've written so far. This project has been a neat experience/experiment over the last two months, and I'm glad that I chose to write about something as difficult as this. I absolutely had the power to write about anything I wanted; I had decided that the more unfamiliar the writing style and topic, the more rewarding the work would ultimately be. I'm certain I did the right thing. 

The Planted Illusions of Fear

I am in the middle of reading All Quiet on The Western Front as research/inspiration for the manuscript piece I plan on handing in in May, and I have come across the passage that encapsulates the entirety of this novel and World War I.

"But you were only an idea to me before, an abstraction that lived in my mind and called forth its appropriate response. It was that abstraction I stabbed. But now, for the first time, I see you are a man like me. I thought of your hand-grenades, of your bayonet, of your rifle; now I see your wife and your face and our fellowship. Forgive me, comrade. We always see it too late."
—Erich Maria Remarque (translated by A.W. Wheen)

Lunacy

Jim! Where the fava beans at?!

In near unanimous aplomb, which I'm sure was celebrated over dozens of bottles of Opici, Congress voted today (398-1) to strike out the pesky word "lunatic" from US Code.

According to Senator Kent Conrad, one of the bill's staunch supporters, "Federal law should reflect the 21st Century understanding of mental illness and disease, and that the continued use of this pejorative term has no place in the US code."


The only one to vote against it and recently shunned non-believer Texas congressman Louie Gohmert believes that the effort taken to sit around, discuss, and vote on this issue was a total waste of time when bigger issues, say the end-of-the-year fiscal cliff, was sitting on the table. Unfortunately, the bottles of Opici were rested on it, so no one noticed.     

Surprise the Gamer Girl in Your Life

Make sure they're not all Bidoofs.

If you have a lovely lady who's into video games, here's a great way to get some brownie points. Say she plays lots of Pokemon. Grab her game and load it up. Go out and capture three random poke-monsters and rename them: "I," "Love," "You." Next time she loads that bad boy and opens up her menu and finds that—well, say hello to Pantsless Town (Pop. 2).

Little surprises like this can make any relationship shine. Shitty days happen because random unexpected things befall us. But consider how easy it is to turn an ordinary day into a sweet one. This is one way to guarantee a healthy and happy relationship.

She'll slay that spider with "Pudding Lips."

And you can do this with any game where you have the option to input names. Skyrim for example: name a badass axe after her pet name (if you prescribe to such harrowing cuteness, of course).


Go forth and make every day brighter. 

Year End Book Count

This year was a good one in regard to the varieties of books I read, but I certainly didn't read enough. The "A Song of Ice and Fire" series certainly takes most of the blame since I refused to whip through those quickly. In any case, I am glad I managed to get this many in and I'm looking forward to beating this record next year. (It's a good thing I'll be done with graduate school in May.)

Things Fall Apart - Chinua Achebe
The Hound of the Baskervilles - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
The Dark Knight Returns - Frank Miller
Clash of Kings - George R.R. Martin
Storm of Swords - George R.R. Martin
Feast for Crows - George R.R. Martin
Atonement - Ian McEwan
Invisible Monsters - Chuck Palahniuk
Haroun and the Sea of Stories - Salman Rushdie
The Dragon Can’t Dance - Earl Lovelace
Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
In The Heart of the Country - J.M. Coatzee
Breakfast of Champions - Kurt Vonnegut
Blackbirds - Chuck Wendig
American Gods - Neil Gaiman

Collective Page Count: 5,483 (and some of that text is tiny!)
Most Enjoyable: Storm of Swords (for those who know, it's obvious)
Surprise Gem: Haroun and the Sea of Stories (zippy and entertaining read)

How many books did everyone else read and what kinds? Suggestions are welcome. 

Comparative Poetry Drafts

Working on poetry is tough. It's often thankless work that most people read and end up scratching their heads over. It elicits responses like "It's nice" or "Sound's pretty," which amount to little more than nothing. I don't expect a Freudian dissection of the work and there is no right answer, but from now on, non-readers of poetry, make your best efforts to focus on a specific—if only one—facet of a poem that will give the artist the satisfaction of a valuable comment toward improvement.

Below are two drafts of a poem I wrote for my seminar in poetry. The first is what I handed in to be workshopped, and with the help of my peers' excellent critiques, I revised it to the poem below the first for submission into my end-of-semester portfolio. Compare and contrast and let me know what you all think of the changes.

Raconteur

Setting craftsman, you crosshatch revelation

quilts for been-theres and wistful savants.      

Pages pop with organic glow, an ebony clarity

pixelated dreamers take into their wisdom chambers.

You serve tonics marked joy, grief, and misery

mixed specially by your sensitivity for savory scribbles made

into sensory salves. Under honeycombed membranes,

a deceptively voluminous body lies waiting

for the jolt to spring forth from comatose layers.

The void's cloaked edges flake, and strips bow back and collapse

to reveal that brilliant, fanfare-confident  

Ah Ha!

My Sweet Muse

She comes without warning,

never at my behest,

to baptize my blotched mind

in sensory salves marked:

joy, grief, love, and rage.

Honeycombed brain chambers ooze

through to fingers and secrete

savory scribbles

in ebony purity

toward that rich, darling

Aha! moment.